


Returning the Favor

by emiv



Series: Companion Pieces to The Longer You Stay [5]
Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Post-The Dark Knight Rises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 09:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emiv/pseuds/emiv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucius warned him about knives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Returning the Favor

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel piece to [The Longer You Stay](http://archiveofourown.org/works/710551/chapters/1313489), but can also be read as a stand-alone.

He makes it back to his bunker by the docks. He’s soaked to the skin; every inch of him reeks of Gotham Bay. The freezing water has slowed his muscles, sunk into his bones. It takes him longer than it should to pull the suit off.

As the adrenaline fades, Miranda's— _Talia’s_ —parting gift begins to throb. He’s not sure he wants to look down.

He does. It’s not pleasant.

Lucius warned him about knives.

Bruce grits his teeth and bandages himself up.

Back in civilian clothes, he hot-wires an abandoned car and takes the cleared tunnel off the island. His vision is blurred, the road signs hard to focus on. It takes far more effort than it should for him to find the exit to the Palisades. He does his best to ignore the searing pain in his side as he runs through basic anatomy in his head. He’s pretty sure the knife missed his vitals.

It’s still bleeding more than he’d like.

Even with the busted side door, Bruce finds the Manor untouched. His security measures around the perimeter have done their job.

The majority of Gotham’s residents being confined to the city’s main islands probably helped.

Every part of him wants to stop, wants to rest, but he can’t; the clock is ticking and he has loose ends to tie.

He scrounges up a phone and sends a message.

Meet me. My place.

He keeps it vague, but she’s clever. She’ll know.

He’s counting on it.

Bullshit, comes the reply a minute later. Prove it.

We’re both suckers. He presses send.

There’s no response.

He’s in the cave when an automated voice comes over the speakers, faint red warning lights flash against the walls.

_Security breach. East wing._

Nice to know she remembered her way around.

The walk to the elevator takes longer than his brain knows it should. With each step, the pain in his side is harder to ignore.

Bruce ignores it anyway.

  


* * *

  


“No autopilot, you son of a bitch?”

The voice comes from behind. Bruce shakes his head. She all but snuck up on him.

She shouldn’t have been able to do that.

“I lied,” he says, turning to face her. There are no doe eyes in this hall today.

Today, her eyes are full of fire.

“No shit,” Selina Kyle snaps back, moving closer. A lioness, ready to pounce. She’s back in civilian clothes too, no less formidable in jeans than her catsuit. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“Lots of things.” Bruce doesn’t mean to be so honest.

She has that effect.

“Understatement,” she counters, crossing her arms.

“I hope you didn’t bring the bike.”

“I’m not stupid, unlike you,” she says. Her eyes are still angry, but her shoulders lower slightly as the tension etched across her body fades. “That’s the second time you’ve died on me, Wayne.”

“Are you keeping track?”

“Did you drag me out here just for kicks?”

Bruce shakes his head.

“The clean slate,” he says. “Have you activated it?”

“I—no,” she admits.

“Because you can’t?”

Her eyes narrow. Bruce figured as much; the cell towers were up but intermittent. Much of Gotham’s infrastructure wouldn't be back online yet. It wouldn't be for days.

“And I assume you have a way to get connected?” she asks.

Through the pain, Bruce smiles.

  


* * *

  


“Hell of a set-up you got here,” Selina says; Bruce watches her take in the walls of the cave, the water trickling down the sides. She tugs the edges of her jacket, pulling it closer. There’s a flurry of flapping wings from above.

“Are those _bats?_ ”

“Yeah.”

Selina shakes her head.

“You are a strange, strange man.”

Bruce doesn’t respond, moving past her along the raised walkway to his main work desk. His body wants to bend with every step, but he forces it straight. The world grows unsteady a foot or so away from the console; he takes his seat quicker than he’d like. He grits his teeth as bead of sweat rolls down his face. He brushes it away with the back of his hand, turns the chair and reaches over to boot up the system.

After a moment, the gentle whiz of electronics competes with the constant drip of water, the white noise of the distant waterfall. Bruce’s mind begins to drift. He closes his eyes, tries to will it back.

He senses her move behind him; the sudden proximity sets off his internal alarms, wakes him up.

He’d almost forgotten she was there.

Selina runs her hand along the edge of his desk, rests back against it.

“Now what?” she asks. He holds out his hand. Selina presses her lips together, hesitates.

“What, don’t trust me?” he asks. She huffs but doesn’t answer, pulling the flash drive from her jacket pocket and setting it in his open palm.

He inserts the drive into the proper port, ignoring the sudden rush of blood to his head. He shakes the dazed feeling away, focusing on the task at hand. His fingers move across the keyboard, the clicks and taps rhythmic and steady.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Selina move away from the desk. He focuses back on the screens, barely registering the shift in weight as she leans against the back of his chair. The faint scent of lingering perfume pulls his attention away.

_No, not perfume,_ he thinks. _It’s too clean. Too ordinary._

_Shampoo._

He finds himself staring off at nothing, his vision blurred. He shakes his head, wrestles his focus back.

Aside from her proximity, Selina doesn’t distract him. He expected banter, a smart comment or two, but there are no wisecracks now. She’s so quiet, so still, Bruce wonders for a moment if she’s holding her breath.

He stops typing, eyes the screen. It’s almost done, but he has to ask.

“Are you sure you want to—” Before he can finish his sentence, Selina reaches over his shoulder, using it for leverage as she leans in and taps enter. The sound of the key strike echoes through the cave.

“Done?” she asks, leaning back again. Bruce pulls up a new screen and types in her name, scrolls through the databases, one by one.

GCPD. FBI. CIA. Interpol.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not legal,” she says. He looks back. He expects to see a smirk, but catches an honest smile on her lips, a light behind her eyes. She lets out a soft breath.

Bruce leans back in his chair. With nothing to distract him, the pain he’s pushed to the edges of his consciousness comes flooding back. He clenches his jaw, forces himself to sit straighter as he returns his attention to the monitors.

It’s a long moment before he realizes he’s being watched.

His brow furrows as he attempts to focus on something other than the constant throbbing in his side and the weight of her eyes on his back.

_One down, four to go._

He runs through the list in his head. Lucius would discover the fixed autopilot. Refabricating the signal for Gordon could wait a day. Alfred would come later.

That left Blake.

Bruce pulls up the exact coordinates for the cave, reaches for a pen, and twists the wrong way.

“You don’t look so good, Wayne.”

“Long day,” he replies, biting back a grimace.

“Ha.” Her voice is humorless. Bruce looks away, begins to transcribe the coordinates on a scrap of paper when a hand, firm and no nonsense, presses flat against his forehead. He jerks away from the contact; she pulls back.

“You’re freezing,” she says.

“I’m fine.” Even as he says the words, his body betrays him and he shivers. His eyes narrow at the involuntary action.

“Liar,” Selina says, moving in front of him again. She puts herself between him and his monitors. Her face is dark, backlit by unnatural blue light. He doesn’t look at her, focusing past her to the information that scrolls down the screens. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her stiffen.

“What the hell?” she mutters under her breath.

Bruce looks down.

He’d bled through the bandages. They’d have to be redone.

He should have found a darker shirt.

“I thought you wore armor.” There is no edge to her voice now, nothing playful either.

“It’s not impenetrable,” Bruce admits. She scoffs.

“I can see that.”

“It’s nothing.”

It’s getting harder and harder to lie.

Harder and harder to _think_. 

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” Selina says. She moves closer, but Bruce waves a hand, shoos her way. Selina rolls her eyes. “Where’s your butler guy?”

“Gone.” His voice is clipped. “We’re done here.”

“Are we?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Why?” Selina tilts her head, her arms crossed across her chest. “Is bleeding out alone in your stupid cave part of your master plan?”

“Not your problem.” The words come out in growl. He looks over to her. She stares back at him, unphased.

“None of this is my problem,” she reminds him.

“Then go.”

Now that it’s been brought to his attention, Bruce can’t seem to ignore the way his shirt sticks to his skin, saturated. The small, uneven circle of blood was widening, spreading further.

It would need suturing sooner rather than later.

Bruce moves to stand, but his legs are still unsteady. He sits again, gripping the arms of the chair. Those steady eyes of hers burn into his skin.

“There’s a medkit in a case on the far wall,” he says with a sigh. He gestures in it’s general direction, but she’s already moving to retrieve it.

She returns, setting the case on the desk and opening it. It’s standard fare, a military-grade medkit: rolls of gauze and adhesive tape, a few suture kits, iodide, peroxide, tiny vials of sedative, syringes. He watches as she runs her fingers over the various pieces, taking inventory.

“I can’t imagine anything in there is valuable enough to take,” he says.

“Very funny.”

He reaches for the suture kit.

“I think you might need more than a few stitches,” Selina says. She’s being deliberately offhanded now; Bruce frowns.

“I can handle it from here,” he tells her, his voice low. He turns away, waits for the sound of retreating footsteps, but instead, he feels the chair swivel back around, finds himself looking into dark, determined eyes. She leans in close, hair falling around her face. She smells like soap.

“We’re done,” Bruce repeats. Even to his own ears, the words sound weak.

“Not till I say we are, sweetheart.” Her fingertips trace the side of his face to his chin; she tilts it up, leans in. He’s too tired, too weak, to resist.

He doesn’t want to resist.

Her lips press, warm, soft against his. There’s nothing rushed this time; she’s not running away, he’s not running off.

After an endless, impassive moment, he kisses her back, pushes past the pain. His hands wander, his fingers weave through her hair as he pulls her closer. He lets himself have this, lets himself get lost. Lets himself drift.

He feels the prick against the side of his neck a half second too late.

The needle drops, careless, clattering loud on the cave floor.

His grip on her tightens. Her face is too close, too out of focus, to make out.

The world fades to black before he can ask her why.

  


* * *

  


The first thing Bruce sees when he opens his eyes is that smirk of hers, deep red.

However long he’s been out, she’s had time to reapply her lipstick.

_I need to stop letting her kiss me._

The light is bright, florescent. He flexes his hand; there’s an IV needle stiff against it, taped in place.

“You’re damn heavy, you know that?” The smirk on her lips shines in her dark eyes. “Good thing I work out.” She’s in the chair beside him, glancing at him over an old magazine, her feet propped on the edge of his bed.

His hospital bed.

_Perfect._

“How long?” he asks.

“Couple hours.” Selina sets the magazine down and sits up, stretching stiff muscles in her arms and neck. “Wasn’t sure how much of that stuff to give you, so I winged it.”

“Next time, don’t.” His head is still fuzzy, but not with pain; the throbbing in his side has ebbed.

_Painkillers._

He hated painkillers.

“Don't what?” Selina asks. “Wing it?”

“Drug me.”

“You were being a stubborn ass,” she replies. “And pretty bad off, or so the docs say. Not surprising considering the massive blood loss, not to mention that hole in your side.”

“Medical information is confidential.”

“Oh darling,” Selina says, reaching over to brush the hair away from his eyes. It’s a gesture that is meant to be mocking, but somehow, it isn’t. “Not from your spouse.”

Bruce grunts. “I suppose it’s worked for you before.”

“Hey, if it ain’t broke.”

Bruce tries to sit up, but his limbs are heavy, weighed down. Even holding his head up is a chore.

He hated being drugged.

He fiddles with the plastic bracelet rubbing against his wrist, looks down to read the name.

_John Blake._

“Cute,” he says.

“Needed a name.” Selina shrugs, her smirk growing wider. “Can’t get much more generic than that one.”

“Well, _Mrs. Blake_ , where are we?” Bruce looks around the room for identifying information, but can’t locate any. 

“An hour or so outside Gotham,” Selina answers. “Don’t worry,” she adds, lower, “no one’s recognized that handsome face of yours yet.”

Bruce pauses, looks back at her.

“What makes you think I don’t want to be recognized?” The words to come out less playful than Bruce intended. He tilts his head, watches her face.

“You didn’t pull that whole ‘no autopilot’ thing just for dramatic effect.”

After a moment, Bruce shakes his head.

“The big question is ‘why the ruse’?” There’s a glimmer in her eyes. “Couldn’t have been just for that kiss.”

“Would have been worth it,” he teases. She doesn't take the bait.

“Why?”

He knows what she’s asking.

“Fresh start,” Bruce replies.

“There’s a lot of that going around.”

“So it seems,” he says. “I had it under control.”

Selina scoffs.

“There’s a blood stain on my jacket that says otherwise.” She nods toward the discarded jacket, hanging over the back of her chair. “You’re buying me a new one, by the way.”

“Am I?”

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to get blood out of suede?”

“Not a clue,” he says. The light atmosphere fades into silence. After a moment, Bruce speaks. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

Selina shrugs.

“One-time deal,” she says. “The next time you decide to do something stupid or suicidal, you’re on your own.”

“Noted.” In spite of himself, Bruce smirks. “So, is there anything else about my condition I should know about?”

“The knife missed your vitals—”

“I already knew that.”

“Sure, you did,” she says, waving a hand before continuing. “At any rate, you’re all stitched up. The blood loss has made you charmingly weak but has clearly done nothing to improve your personality.”

Bruce chuckles softly before holding back a wince. The pain is still there but faint.

“You’re on antibiotics for ten days,” she continues. “And can resume most normal activities in about two weeks.” A playful smirk tugs at her lips. “Including sex, in case you were wondering.”

There’s a gleam in her eyes. It amuses him. Intrigues him.

So much about her does.

“I wasn’t,” Bruce says. “But good to know.” He matches the look in her eyes, sees her rise to the unspoken challenge. His eyes travel down her face; his thoughts race back to those lips against his. Soft. Warm.

“You could have left me here,” he says.

She doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

“I could have.”

“But you didn’t.”

“What are you getting at?”

Through the drowsy haze of exhaustion and opiates, three words echo in his brain.

_Come with me._

Bruce feels himself fading but pushes past it, tilting his head toward her again. She’s close enough to touch. He reaches out, skims the soft skin of her arm with his fingertip. She doesn’t move; he can feel her steady eyes, watching him. Waiting.

“That offer of yours still stand?” he asks softly, letting a small smile tug at his lips.

Selina stares back at him.

“Yes.” After a second, she shakes her head and smirks. “But right now? Sleep.”

_Sleep._ Bruce can’t remember the last time he’d slept, being drugged or knocked unconscious not included. He wants to move, to leave, but his body is heavy, the bed warm.

“And when I wake up?” he asks, his eyes drifting close.

“We’ll figure it out.”

Bruce nods. Even with closed eyes, he can still sense her presence in the room; he listens as she shifts and moves, settles back into her chair. The constant faraway bustle of the hospital begins to fade.

The last thing he remembers before falling asleep is the faint, lingering scent of shampoo.


End file.
